Last Laugh
by Sandra E
Summary: Christmas at The Burrow turns rotten as Percy keeps walking in on Hermione. And vice versa.


Oh, my, I seem to be specializing in fluff lately.

  


**Title**: Last Laugh

**Author**: Sandra

**Category**: Humor/Romance, HG/PW

**Spoilers**: Probably.

**Rating**: Overall --- R for, you know, nudity. Probably quite undeserved, but better to err on the side of caution. Really. This is pure, cavity-causing sugar.

**Summary**: Christmas at the Burrow turns rotten as Percy keeps walking in on Hermione. And vice versa. Basically, a 'Percy discovers the joys of family' story.

**Disclaimer**: Mm, lawsuit pending.

**Author's Note**: Someone stop me already. You, yes, _you_, Rachel.

**Feedback**: Well, duh.

**Etc**: For later chapters --- admittedly, I know nothing about wizards' showers. I mean, they don't have electricity, so it stands to reason they take baths instead. But let's just play along. 

  


**Setting**: Year Six.

  


*****

"Yield to temptation; it may not pass your way again." 

-- Robert Heinlein

*****

  


**Where:**

  


  


The morning sky brightened toward the horizon, over Avalon's Bridge.

The bridge, not exactly a unique engineering solution, trembled slightly under the car's weight. Mr. Granger, who preferred to enjoy the beauty of winter from his spot near a warm, cozy fireplace, kept exchanging prudent glances with an anxious Mrs. Granger.

Small, tear shaped icicles clung to the car's mirrors, and big, fluffy snowflakes drifted across the windshield. Hermione Granger, who'd put down her copy of _Hogwarts_, _A History_ as soon as they'd reached the bridge, looked about with a certain dizzying bewilderment.

Soon, if Ron was to be believed, they'd see The Burrow.

Nestled within a snow-covered valley, the village of Ottery St. Catchpole looked like an old Russian greeting card. Picturesquely quiet, with massive mounds of untouched snow hiding its patchwork of fields. The bridge seemed to end just atop the hill, not unlike the apex of an icy roller coaster. A sharp slope, the kind not even the worst of sports enthusiasts would choose to climb, dangled beneath them. 

"_Ah_," said Mr. Granger. "Is this --- is this the part where we---" here, he swirled his index finger in a circular motion, "---where we---"

"It's called magic, dear," said Mrs. Granger worriedly, gripping her seat. Hermione leaned forward, her little nose poking between two seats. With a soft smile, she pointed north, through clumps of tall trees, over a string of snowy heaps. An occasional snowball bounced off the slope, cascading onto the unsuspecting village.

"It's like sledding, Dad," said Hermione calmly. Mrs. Granger gave a small, panicked squeal, but said nothing more.

"So I just --- er, I just---" began Mr. Granger.

"---keep going," finished Hermione patiently.

"Just... keep going," said Mr. Granger bewilderedly. "Don't you think it's awfully steep, dear?" he mumbled, fidgeting.

Hermione grinned cheekily. "We _could_ have gone through the fireplace."

"Point taken," said Mr. Granger and lifted his foot from the brake. Mrs. Granger shut her eyes tightly. The car tottered for a short moment, then violently lurched forward. Mrs. Granger shrieked and pushed against the dashboard. Mr. Granger gripped the wheel and muttered a few well-chosen Muggle cuss words.

Hermione, who herself had a peculiar dislike of flying, wrapped her arms around her mum's headrest and watched with curious fascination as they slid --- very, very quickly --- down the hill. For a moment, she thought she spotted Errol and Pigwidgeon, two of the Weasleys' owls, picking on a snooty Hermes (Percy Weasley's elitist pet), but dismissed it as impossible.

The car bounced, propelled off the ground by an annoyed snowman, and flew the last few meters. With a soft thud, the Granger family landed onto a pile of soft, old lumber.

"Just like a roller coaster," said Mr. Granger numbly, his knuckles white from gripping the steering wheel. Mrs. Granger recovered first, and turned to her daughter.

"Got your mittens on, Hermione?" she asked. Hermione nodded.

"Cap and shawl?"

"Yes, Mum."

"Coat?"

Mr. Granger sighed wearily. "You're avoiding, dear."

Mrs. Granger looked sheepish. "I just thought I should check. We don't know how --- how a wizard's house works. What if there's no---"

"Mum, they're waiting for us," said Hermione, bundling up. "Come on, Dad, The Burrow is just a little further up."

Mr. Granger swallowed and shifted the car in reverse. To his amazement, it slid off the logs effortlessly. He could have sworn that, by the looks of it, they should have been roof-deep in snow, but the car moved as if it were skating on ice.

A small yard loomed ahead. Hermione fidgeted anxiously in the back seat, Mrs. Granger kept biting her lips, and Mr. Granger tried mighty hard not to run over a fat, brown chicken that seemed intent on getting in his way.

"Oh, my," said Mrs. Granger, looking at the house with wide eyes.

"Er," echoed Mr. Granger.

The center of The Burrow was a large, stone house, several stories high. Five twisted chimneys protruded from the roof, blending into a flattened brick wall. Even the windows --- slightly cracked on the third level, where the Weasley twins had grown up --- seemed bent at an odd angle.

"It's... charming," Mrs. Granger assured Hermione (Hermione snorted). "Slightly reminiscent of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and er---"

Hermione giggled. She kissed her mother on the cheek and cheerfully pointed to a small tumbledown garage. Mr. Granger drove past the main road, threw one suspicious glance at a lopsided sign that said _The_ _Burrow_, and parked.

He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, clearing his throat.

"Well," said Mr. Granger finally. "They don't seem to be in. Maybe --- er, maybe we ought to just head back ho---"

Before he could finish his thought, all five chimneys came to life, and the entire crooked edifice seemed to become sentient. The huge, scratched-mahogany doors burst open, and several lively figures ran out, heading for the car.

Hermione gave an excited squeak, and reached for the doors. She jangled the handle impatiently, pushing at the door. 

"_Alohomora_!" she yelped when the door refused to open. Nothing. "_Alo_---"

Mr. Granger sighed and squeezed a tiny, plastic button, and Hermione immediately bolted out of the car.

Mr. and Mrs. Granger looked at each other, and remained seated, entwining their fingers in a show of Muggle solidarity.

Hermione, who, to a casual observer, seemed faster than a Golden Snitch, looked around, and threw her arms around the nearest person. Ginny Weasley, who'd been clapping her hands excitedly, waiting for Hermione to reach her, shrieked happily and wrapped her arms around Hermione.

"You told me that hill was _enchanted_," said Hermione scoldingly, though her eyes twinkled. Ginny giggled.

"Er --- Dad's still working out the kinks," she said, and watched as Harry Potter, who could have practically changed his name to Weasley for all the time he spent at The Burrow, pounced on Hermione.

Mr. Weasley, who'd had ulterior motives, greeted the Grangers with a great, big "_Welcome_!"

He was a tall, balding man, who looked no older than five as he observed the Grangers' family car. He shook Mr. Granger's hand happily, asking if he could just take a tiny peek at the interior. The CD player interested him most ("_Burn_ them? Er. I reckon cooking them isn't enough---?").

Mrs. Granger, meanwhile, had been ushered into a large, odd kitchen. Hermione had disappeared amidst a sea of grinning, freckled faces. Mrs. Granger looked around fearfully, her eyes skimming over books such as _Charm_ _Your_ _Own_ _Cheese_, _De_-_gnoming's_ _Downright_ _Easy_, and _Relating_ _To_ _Muggles_ _Today_. Just when she'd begun to relax, a large, ancient-looking mirror over the mantelpiece caught her eye. She glanced at herself, and shrieked. She continued screaming as the mirror kept talking about letting her hair down and losing the rouge.

A horrible wailing came from a distant corner, where an old radio struggled through a medley of Christmas carols. Crookshanks, Hermione's overgrown cat, snuck into the house (and away from an overzealous Mr. Weasley), and hid in a very rusty cauldron next to the furnace. Rubber boots littered the entrance, and Mrs. Granger noticed that the Weasleys didn't seem at all bothered.

"A _talking_ car, you say!" said Mr. Weasley loudly, showing Mr. Granger the way into the kitchen. Both men sat at a scrubbed wooden table, and Mrs. Granger immediately huddled closer to her husband. A small explosion came from somewhere above. No one seemed to mind that, either.

"A compluterized _what_?" continued Mr. Weasley, awed.

"Arthur, dear, you're being rude," warned Mrs. Weasley distractedly. She'd been inspecting the thank-you cake Mrs. Granger had brought.

"_Sugar_-_free_, you say?" she asked with interest.

  


*****

  


**Who:**

  


  


Percy Weasley was tired.

Even as he yawned out a sleepy "_The_ _Burrow_!", and stepped through the fireplace, he had the distinct feeling he'd forgotten something.

Double-checked Paragraph 3 of Section II for loopholes, check. Reread the Bulgarian trade agreement, check. Wrote a lengthy report on the thickness of French cauldrons (the French were putting the Hungarians to shame, and tensions were rising), check. Tested and retested the new ladles (imported from _Brazil_, thank you very much), check.

So --- what was it?

He gave another small yawn, and dusted himself off.

Fireplace, tarnished brick walls, unpolished mantelpiece, sleeping mirror and rubber boots everywhere.

He was home. Finally.

Two things registered in his sleep-deprived brain next.

One, cookies. Myriad of freshly-baked cookies; chocolate and vanilla and powdered sugar and lemon and orange and---

And two, no one had been waiting for him. Humpf. Percy Weasley, who didn't _need_ anyone to wait up for him anyway, squared his shoulders and marched toward the stairs. If his family wasn't considerate enough to greet him, then he certainly wouldn't bend over backwards to tell them about his exciting day.

Inside the pipes, deep within the layers of repainted drywall, the old ghoul clamored for attention. Figures.

Percy Weasley took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was too sleepy to seek out his father, and complain (coherently) about that ancient annoyance in the attic. If Arthur Weasley thought _gnomes_ were amusing, he certainly considered the old ghoul a riot.

Percy wrinkled his nose. Why hadn't he moved out yet?

Perhaps he spent too much time at the office to even consider the eventuality.

Hmm.

Percy yawned, and noticed he made absolutely no progress in climbing the old staircase. He shook his head, and took two steps at a time.

And he was doing quite well, mind you, until he reached the third floor. The hallway was dark, but two wands --- perched opposite each other on parallel walls --- illuminated a hunched figure.

Fred. Or George. One of them.

The silhouette looked up. Percy sighed. He'd been spotted.

"Ah," said Fred or George disappointedly, "you're home."

"And you're observant," said Percy huffily, and pushed his brother aside. Oh, no. There. The other one was there too, scraping off a piece of gum ("Don't, Father," it was saying, "I want to _live_! _Father_!") from the crumbly wall.

Percy sighed, loudly. Perhaps he _should_ pull a Crouch one of these days. Turn in his entire family, and live happily every after.

A hushed thump of --- _something_ --- made Percy turn around. Something small and fluffy sailed past him and scrambled up the wall. It resembled a cat --- an ugly, overgrown, orange monster --- but Percy hadn't remembered Mum taking in another stray. After Scabbers, Molly Weasley screened every potential pet --- from ant to niffler.

So, that couldn't have possibly been a cat. It was just the shadows, playing tricks on his sleepy mind.

Again, Percy thought there was something he should be remembering---

"What _are_ you doing?" he asked disdainfully. Fred or George looked up from his gum-child and grinned.

"Why, we're remodeling, of course."

The other Fred or George snorted and peeled off an ugly scrap of wallpaper. "Yes, Percy, we're taking a leaf out of your book, you see." He glanced at the wall, which was now an even uglier pinkish color, wrinkled his nose at the moldy stains, then looked back at Percy again. "We're tidying up for our guests."

What guests d---

Ah, yes. Harry Potter and the Granger family. They were scheduled to arrive here ---

Tomorrow? Next week?

When was Christmas?

Wait. Wasn't Harry already here?

Percy gave a disinterested shrug, and walked around the gum, which now took after a sticky puddle and seeped through the ratty, old rug. "Father!" it cried. "I must leave you now. Please do not be sad!"

Percy blinked and --- very carefully --- jumped over it, smacking Fred or George upside the head. "I cannot wait for the day when you lot are granted the privilege of an emotional growth spurt."

"Oh, it's inevitable, I suppose," said Fred or George with a grin. Percy eyed him suspiciously.

"Inescapable, you're right," said the other one, "unless we mix a little chopped mandrake with a pinch of phoenix ashes and---"

Percy narrowed his eyes.

Then he gave up (having decided it was simpler to pretend he _had_ no relatives than to rehabilitate the entire wild lot), and walked off. Just when he'd reached his room, and was about to surrender to the siren-song of his bed, one of the twins shouted after him.

"Oi, where do you think you're _going_?"

Percy scowled with annoyance, and turned to face what had to be Fred. "Did George finally invent something that killed that last remaining brain-cell of yours, or are you simply specializing in stupidity today?"

Fred glared, and opened his mouth to retaliate, when George poked him.

"Forgive him, Percy," said George with an innocent smile. "Go. Rest. _In_ _your_ _room_. We can see you're in need of sleep."

Fred looked confused. Then, a huge, wicked grin spread over his features. He smirked at Percy and said, in a low, satisfied voice, "Yes, please excuse my _forgetfulness_. I simply don't know what's come over me today." He flailed his arms for emphasis, in a pretentious, airy manner Percy suspected was a mockery of his own.

Percy hadn't even tried to hide a yawn as he waved them off and said, "Please do try not to wake me up. I'm not getting out of that bed until it's absolutely necessary."

He was vaguely aware of the twins snickering behind him.

With a sigh, he turned the knob --- the golden layer was peeling off --- and pushed. 

His room smelled --- strange. Breezy. Like someone had left the window open while peeling an orange.

It was cozy and warm and dark and a plate of cookies was propped up against the windowsill.

Percy gave a mental shrug, and closed the door behind him.

With heavy lids, he unbuttoned his robes and folded them --- neatly and efficiently --- across a wobbly, wooden chair. Shoes were next. With a yawn that made his eyes water slightly, he pushed them under the same chair, and glanced at the window.

It had begun to snow again. Gently, the snowflakes touched the intricate ice patterns on the window. Orderly _and_ beautiful, thought Percy as he nibbled on a cookie.

Then he blinked.

For a moment, it seemed as if there was a car parked in front of their shabby garage (I do hope Dad hasn't recovered that Ford Anglia. I'd hate for Mum to murder him so close to Christmas), but dismissed it. It was merely a drift of snow that only looked like a car. Like clouds sometimes looked like sheep.

Sheep.

Oh.

He needed sleep, and he needed it now.

With less patience, he shrugged out of his pants, took off his shirt --- perfectly white and wrinkle-free --- and placed his glasses on the table.

He took one step, another, and one more, until he reached his bed. It was an old bed --- wooden and creaky and under so many magic spells that Percy wondered how it hadn't spontaneously combusted yet. But right now, shrouded in darkness, enveloped in a certain cozy comfort, it looked more appealing than a chair on the Committee On Experimental Charms.

He sat down, sinking into the soft mattress, and peeled off his socks. With a happy sigh, he leaned back until his head hit one of the pillows. Ah, goose feathers. Nothing like it.

He drew the covers --- plush and gentle and old and smelling faintly of lemon --- over himself. He curled up around something soft, and marveled at how warm and smooth his bed seemed today. He hugged his pillow --- which had apparently decided to grow arms and legs --- closer, and mumbled softly into a pile of silky curls.

Briefly, he wondered once again, if he'd forgotten something, but just then --- his pillow squirmed slightly, and he dismissed the thought as irrelevant.

A warm, light scent of oranges --- the big, juicy, sweet kind that he'd usually find under the Christmas tree as a child --- lingered near his pillow, and Percy Weasley, extraordinarily content, fell asleep.

Had he been less sleepy and more observant, he'd have most likely noticed his pillow had, in actuality, been a girl.

One Hermione Granger, who'd certainly not appreciate this as a Christmas present.

  


*** **


End file.
